by J F Straker
‘And how did William find out that Edward was the father? Did you put that in the note too?’ There was a hint of sarcasm in Miss Mytton’s voice.
‘He’d known for some time. He overheard us talking one day; he was always eavesdropping.’ She sighed. ‘I’m afraid I’ve been very careless, Emily. And yet I tried so hard not to be.’
Miss Mytton made no comment on that. It was not a matter for either sympathy or censure. ‘Did he try to get money out of Edward as well?’ she asked.
‘No. I don’t know why not. Perhaps he thought a solicitor might be too clever for him, that he might inform the police. I thought that too. That’s why I didn’t go to Edward for advice; I couldn’t risk the publicity of a trial. I know one doesn’t have to give one’s name in court, and it’s kept out of the papers. But there are people there, aren’t there? Someone must know.’
Miss Mytton thought she had taken far greater risks than that, but again she made no comment. Instead she said, in a quietly conversational tone that was completely foreign to her, ‘How did you kill William?’
‘I didn’t plan that either.’ Miss Justin smiled wanly. ‘But when I heard from Mary that he was going to visit Edward on Thursday I knew what that meant. Or I thought I knew. So I telephoned Edward to warn him. He couldn’t say much on the phone because the Colonel was with him at the time. But we discussed it later, and I persuaded him to let me hide behind the curtains in his office while he talked to William.’ Miss Mytton nodded. She remembered those curtains. ‘Edward let me in by the casement windows before William arrived, so that Miss Stewart shouldn’t see me.’
‘And what happened?’
The interview had not gone as Miss Justin had anticipated. William had started by asking permission to marry Sybil. That had startled her as much as it had startled Edward; and when the latter curtly refused William had shown his hand. It was a stronger hand than Miss Justin had expected. Not only did he threaten to make public Matt’s parentage, but he also told how he had found (and read) the note Miss Justin had started to write on the Sunday evening. That particular note had been torn up; but it was obvious, said William, that another had been completed and delivered. ‘And if you didn’t kill Cluster then Miss Justin did,’ he concluded. ‘Or maybe you were in it together. I wouldn’t know.’
Mace was speechless with anger and dismay. If the truth about Matt were made public it would play havoc with his professional reputation, and ruin him and Julia socially. But this news about the torn note was even more shattering. William’s assumption seemed unassailable. He had not himself killed Cluster, but he was suddenly confronted with the probability that Clara had.
All this he had explained to Miss Justin later; at the time, shocked into an agony of despair, he had turned away from his tormentor in an effort to think clearly. Miss Justin, hidden behind the curtains, was equally shocked. It was the first she had heard of William’s discovery of the note, and she realized that if he were to hand it to the police her arrest was certain. The hate that had been steadily growing since William’s eruption into her peaceful life came to fruition, and her eyes searched the shadowy bay for a weapon with which to vent it.
‘I didn’t think about killing William or not killing him,’ she told Miss Mytton. ‘I just wanted to hit him, to — to hurt him. There was a golf club leaning against the wall (Edward said he keeps it there to practise approach shots on the piece of grass at the back), and I grabbed it and went through the curtains, and brought the club down hard on his head.’
She had been talking quickly in a flat voice, as though she wished to be done with the recital before any human emotion could interfere. But the final words left her like the last bubbles of air escaping from a flat tyre, and her body slumped suddenly as though that too were deflated.
Miss Mytton shivered; not so much at what she had heard, for it was no worse than much that had gone before, but at the manner in which it had been said; without compassion or regret. After months of believing that Clara had been fond of William, it was difficult suddenly to appreciate just how much she must have hated him.
‘Was he dead?’ she asked eventually, as the silence grew.
‘Yes.’ Miss Justin pulled herself up in the chair. ‘Edward wanted to ring the police, but I wouldn’t let him. I pointed out that William had been killed in his office and in his presence, and that it would be difficult to convince the police that he’d had nothing to do with it. Especially when they learned about Matt.’ She sighed. ‘I suppose that was blackmail, wasn’t it? In a way I’m no better than William. But I had no choice, Emily. You see that, don’t you?’
Miss Mytton saw it clearly. Less clear was why Clara, after two murders, should show remorse at this last-ditch recourse to blackmail.
‘And he agreed?’ she asked.
‘Eventually.’ Miss Justin paused. ‘But he was so overcome, poor man, that it was I who had to do the thinking. That’s odd, isn’t it? He must have had so much more experience of — of crime.’
‘Not at first hand,’ Miss Mytton said meaningly. This had been Clara’s second murder. She knew how it felt.
‘I suppose not. Anyway, he put on William’s gumboots and duffel-coat, as I suggested, and went down the passage to the front door. Miss Stewart naturally assumed it was William, as I’d hoped she would; she couldn’t see his face with the hood up. Then he collected William’s bicycle and brought it round to the back.’
‘And what did you do?’
‘I went out by the casement windows and in again by the front door. I wanted to catch Miss Stewart before she went into Edward’s office, as I knew she would do as soon as she thought William had left. I kept her talking while Edward took off the duffel-coat and gumboots, and got William’s body out of the office and down the steps; by the time she went in to see him he was sitting at his desk, apparently working. I don’t think she suspected a thing.’
‘And then?’ prompted Miss Mytton.
‘I took Miss Stewart home; Edward usually does that if he keeps her late at the office. After we’d gone he put William and the bicycle into the back of the car and took them to where the Colonel found them. We thought an accident would look more likely on the hill, and the nearer to Cheswick the better; if the police did suspect murder that might confuse them.’
‘But you told me yesterday that Edward was on the main road when you and the Colonel met him,’ Miss Mytton objected.
‘Yes, he was. He rejoined it by the lane that runs across past Dorland Farm. If he hadn’t had a puncture and had to change a wheel we wouldn’t have met him.’
‘And you?’
‘I came back by Little Blazing. Luckily the Colonel was ahead of me and found William first; otherwise I’d have had to report the accident, I suppose. I should have hated that. But I couldn’t just leave him and do nothing, could I?’ She shuddered. ‘It was horrible enough as it was. In the office, after I’d hit him — well, there wasn’t time to think about him being dead, if you know what I mean. There was so much to do. But seeing him again on the road I — oh, I felt ghastly. I don’t think I was sorry for what I’d done. But I wasn’t angry any more, and so—’ She shook her head. ‘The Colonel says I was hysterical, and I expect I was. But I don’t really know why.’
After so much, reporting an accident seemed a trifling matter to boggle at. But then it was already clear to Miss Mytton that, despite the years of placid living they had known together, Clara Justin was not quite the person she had always thought her to be. She was the mother of an illegitimate son, she had been the victim of blackmail, she had murdered two men. Yet if one tried hard enough one could perhaps understand, even if one could not excuse or forgive. Clara had been young and inexperienced when Matt was conceived; and although to Miss Mytton it was incomprehensible, one had only to read the newspapers to realize that even in the best families such disasters sometimes occurred. The blackmail was Clara’s penance, not her sin. As for murder — well, anyone might commit murder, even two murders, if dri
ven hard enough. Clara had certainly been driven hard; and the second murder could never seem so impossible as the first. No. It was not Clara’s sins, so much as the manner of them, that shocked and surprised Miss Mytton. No sense of shame, no pity, no remorse; a little horror, perhaps, as when she had seen William’s body on the road, the occasional spasm of fear that every guilty person knows. But that was all. If she had a conscience it was seemingly unruffled; the act of murder appeared to have made no mark on her. During the past week she had discussed it as calmly and objectively as Miss Mytton herself. She even looks the same, thought Miss Mytton, eyeing her friend covertly. Her face is pale — but then it always was. There are no fresh lines on it, her eyes are not red from weeping. Perhaps the shadows under them are a trifle darker; but if she had gone without sleep it was from fear, not from remorse. Clara had said so herself.
To Miss Mytton it was all quite incredible. But as the silence grew to an uncomfortable length she said, ‘I don’t know why you have confided in me, Clara, but I’m beginning to wish you hadn’t. It puts me in an impossible position. What am I supposed to do? We may be friends, but surely you can’t expect me to keep this to myself? By rights I should go straight to the police.’
Miss Justin shook her head. ‘There’s no need, Emily. They know. I wouldn’t have told you otherwise; it wouldn’t have been fair. Nor wise,’ she added, as an afterthought.
But the afterthought was lost on Miss Mytton.
‘They know? And yet you can sit there calmly talking to me? I simply can’t understand you, Clara. Is it possible you don’t realize what — what—’
She allowed the sentence to lapse. To mention hanging would be too cruel.
Miss Justin smiled thinly. ‘I realize everything, Emily. Everything. I’ve had all the afternoon to think about it; there’s been a policeman at the gate since before lunch, and I knew what that meant. I panicked a little at first, but now — well, if I’m not resigned at least I don’t feel as bad as I did. Telling you has helped a lot. But no one else must know the truth. It’s a secret between us.’
Miss Mytton’s voice shrilled into protest.
‘But it can’t be, Clara. The police must be told. You say they know; but they’ve arrested Edward, and you can’t let them—’
‘Of course I can’t, Emily. I shall certainly confess to the murders. But I don’t have to tell the police why, do I? They can’t make me. That’s the secret I want you to keep. Matt mustn’t be involved, you see.’ Miss Justin leaned forward, her eyes fixed intently on her friend’s face. ‘And I hope you’ll do something else for me, Emily. I don’t know how Matt’s going to take this — it isn’t going to be easy for him, poor boy, but I’m hoping—’ Her voice faltered, and she swallowed hard. ‘I’m his only relative, you see. Janet’s in America; and anyway she has her own children now, and it’s years since she saw Matt. I can’t expect any help from her. One of these days he’ll get married, I suppose. But until he does — well, there ought to be somewhere he can think of as home. So I wondered if you’d mind — it would only be the occasional weekend, of course — and you’ve always been so fond of him—’
Miss Mytton had never envied anyone their material possessions, but she had envied Miss Justin her relationship to Matt, even though she had not known until now how strong that relationship was. If she could have picked herself a son she would have chosen Matt. So she said, with complete sincerity, ‘Matt can come to me whenever he wishes. You know that, Clara.’ And added, compassion still strong in her, ‘I’ll look after Peter too, if that’ll help.’
‘Not Peter,’ Miss Justin said firmly. ‘I’ve had him put to sleep; the vet came this afternoon. He was too old to—’
She broke off, listening. There was the crunching sound of shoe-leather on wet gravel. Miss Mytton said, ‘It might be Matt,’ and immediately hoped it wasn’t. She didn’t want to be present at their meeting.
Miss Justin shook her head. ‘It’s not his step. It’s probably the police.’
She was already on her feet when the front-door bell rang. With complete composure she walked quietly from the room. Miss Mytton watched her go with grudging admiration. She had always been fond of Clara, but she had never before admired her.
*
‘If you knew it was Clara,’ Miss Mytton said, when Miss Justin had gone upstairs with a policeman to pack (‘I shan’t be coming back, shall I?’ she had asked; and the inspector had said gravely that he thought that was unlikely), ‘why did you arrest Edward Mace first? Why didn’t you come here straight away?’
She spoke sceptically, for she did not really believe he had known. He’s a nice man, she thought, and no doubt well-meaning and hard-working, but I don’t believe he has the intelligence to work it out for himself. But Clara hadn’t told him, so he must have got it from Edward.
Yet Clara had said there had been a policeman outside the house since before lunch. (She hadn’t noticed him herself; but then it was raining hard, and she had been in a hurry.) And Edward had not been arrested until that afternoon.
‘Lack of evidence,’ Pitt said baldly.
She thought he looked unhappy, as though he did not relish his present task. ‘But there was evidence against Mace?’ she asked.
‘Yes. From the medical evidence it seemed more than likely that Bright was killed about the time he was in Mr Mace’s office. Yet on the face of it that was impossible; Miss Stewart had seen him leave.’ He smiled faintly. ‘You won’t believe this, Miss Mytton — I gather you have a poor opinion of police intelligence, and my own in particular—’ (Miss Mytton gave a hasty disclaimer, but her flushed face belied it) ‘but I even considered the possibility of what actually happened; that Bright was killed in the office, and that it was Mace in Bright’s clothing, not Bright himself, whom Miss Stewart saw. From where she sat only his back would be visible. But I couldn’t see how Mace could have disposed of the body. I was in his office (or what I took to be his office) yesterday morning, and there was no possible hiding-place, and no way out except past the general office. I didn’t know, you see, that Mace was using Mr Ganton’s office that morning. I only discovered that when I called again in the afternoon and found him in another office. His own.’
‘The casement windows,’ murmured Miss Mytton.
He nodded. ‘But we still had to prove it. If we were right, then the body had been taken by car to where it was found. So we pretended our own car had broken down, and got a lift in his station-wagon. He had cleaned the inside of it Thursday evening, but he hadn’t been sufficiently thorough; there were marks where the bicycle pedals had scratched the floorboards, and stains that looked like blood. This morning we found more bloodstains on the office carpet, and also on the steps. I’ve no doubt they’ll check with Bright’s blood group when we get the analysis.’
‘Poor man.’ Feeling slightly disloyal, Miss Mytton added, ‘He was forced into it by Miss Justin, you know. Into concealing the murder, I mean. It was she who actually killed Bright. Did you know that?’
‘No,’ he admitted. ‘I didn’t. But I was sure she had killed Cluster.’
‘On what grounds?’ Let him substantiate his boasting if he can, thought Miss Mytton. She did not believe he could. With so many more obvious suspects it was most unlikely that he had selected Clara.
‘This and that.’ There was no reason why he should satisfy her curiosity, and for several seconds he left it at that. But the slight smile on her face irritated him, and he went on, ‘The general assumption seemed to be that Cluster was lured to your cottage with the set purpose of killing him, and that the murderer knew where to find the key and that you were away. Well, that was possible. But it was also possible that the opposite was true; that the murderer called to see you, not knowing you were away, and found Cluster there.’ He smiled. ‘Don’t ask me what I thought he was doing there. I didn’t attempt to guess at that. Guessing in police work can be dangerous.’
‘But that meant discarding a small, select few for a very wide fi
eld, didn’t it?’
‘I didn’t discard anyone, ma’am. I merely considered the alternatives in the light of what little evidence we had. The weapon, for instance. If someone had lured Cluster to your cottage with the express purpose of killing him he wouldn’t have left the weapon to chance. So the use of your knife seemed to indicate that the murder was not premeditated. Yet the complete absence of fingerprints seemed to point the other way. People who kill on the spur of the moment are not usually so thorough as to remove fingerprints from everything they touch. For one thing, they find it difficult to remember exactly what they have touched.’ Noting the rather dazed expression on her face he asked, ‘I hope that isn’t too involved.’
‘Not at all.’ She was out of her depth, but she would not admit it. And remembering all the detective novels she had read she said, ‘What about gloves?’
‘Ah, yes. Gloves. The obvious precaution for a would-be murderer. It was a warm evening for November; unlikely, then, that the chance caller would be wearing them. And yet that too was possible. There is a small group of persons who always wear gloves of an evening — hot or cold, murder or no murder.’
‘And who are they?’ It was clearly the question he expected her to ask.
‘Gentlewomen like yourself, Miss Mytton. And Miss Justin.’
She looked down at her own work-worn hands and shook her head. ‘Miss Justin, yes. But not me, Inspector. I don’t always wear them. You can’t generalize with us like that.’ But she saw the force of his argument, and began to wonder if she had not underrated his intelligence. ‘What else had you got against her?’
‘Well, working on that possibility along with others, Miss Justin stood out as your most likely chance visitor. She was a close friend, and she didn’t know you were away. And shortly before ten that evening Mace had met her in the lane outside this house. She said she had been taking the dog for a walk; but the vicar had told me that it always went out on its own of an evening. Quite a ritual, he said it was. So it seemed far more likely to me that she had been out in the car and was putting it away. If you’ll forgive my saying so, ladies of Miss Justin’s age tend to be creatures of habit.’
